


Touch

by crackleviolet



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12606020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackleviolet/pseuds/crackleviolet
Summary: This is a collection of shorts all focusing on the theme of 'touch'.





	1. Asra

Madeline remembered nothing of her past; nothing of her history outside of the past few years. On occasions she tried to remember, she gained no answers and suffered crushing migraines instead, leaving her to conclude that whatever ghosts lurked there were probably not worth chasing. It seemed almost a cruel irony that those same migraines followed her in dreams. Sometimes she dreamed of voices screaming her name through blistered lips; of rivers running red and a bony hand reaching for her shoulder. She would wake in a cold sweat and almost automatically reach to cradle her face, the pain shooting through her temples the only proof that she had seen anything at all.

On this occasion, like all before, Madeline woke gasping and rubbed her temples as she took in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom. She no longer remembered what it was she had dreamed of, though the ache stretching from the top of her head to behind her eyes answered any questions she might have had. She climbed out of bed with a huff and crept through her bedroom door in a quiet fashion, so as not to wake Asra in her quest for a drink of water. She was not sure if he worried more for the dreams or the migraines and did not much feel like going into it at such a strange hour of the day.

She did not expect for him to still be sitting at his desk, poring over the same book he had been reading when she went to bed. She almost felt like a naughty child, even though he had yet to look in her direction.

“Oh!” She said, at a loss for how else to greet him.

She almost immediately regretted it, supposing she ought to apologise for interrupting his reading, though his expression as he turned to her was not one of annoyance, but concern. She blushed as he took in her bleary eyed state; the way she flinched at how harsh the candlelight was against her eyes.

“Are you alright?” He asked, even though she knew he had already reached his own conclusions.

“It’s nothing! Just a bad dream! I’ll just go and get myself a glass of water and then I’ll be-”

He was on his feet before she could finish, though, crossing the room to make a fresh pot of tea. Madeline considered the gentle atmosphere around her: the books and trinkets as far as the eye could see, magic that still lingered in the air after her earlier lesson, the faint scent of tea leaves as Asra opened the cupboard. Slowly, she lowered herself into a comfy chair and hugged her knees to her chest, smiling softly at the feel of Faust around her ankles.

“Was it another dream?”

Asra was straight to business as he draped a blanket across her lap, though she found she did not mind. She snuggled into the fabric, taking in the familiar scent of home and feeling the tension across her temples begin to recede.

“They’ve been happening a lot more lately,” she said as Asra perched on the arm of the chair, the side of his leg brushing against her hand for the briefest of moments. He was warm from the firelight and she flushed at the sudden realisation of how very close he was.

“You’re gaining some colour at least,” he said with a soft smile, reaching out a hand to her forehead.

She was used to sitting beside Asra to study one craft or another, and so she wasn’t sure why she was suddenly so conscious of his touch. Only earlier on that day, he had leaned over her shoulder to turn to a specific page, one hand using her shoulder to steady himself and the other reaching for the book, his cheek only a matter of millimetres from hers. There was no book in front of her now, though, and she had nothing to distract her from the sight of his freckles up close, nor the magic in each of his fingertips.

She gazed up at him through the blankets, noting his blush as he retracted his hand and climbed off the chair. They had had the same thought, even if neither wanted to say so.

“Listen,” he said, and almost immediately she knew he had mistaken her pensiveness for something else entirely. “I know that the nightmares are frightening, but please remember that I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Because you’re my master?”

“I…no. Because you’re special to me.”

He sounded confident even if he could not look her in the face. In truth, Madeline knew it was the answer that made the most sense, though something about it left relief rushing through her body and she stared into the fireplace, wondering how things had come to be so silently complicated between them. Perhaps they had always been so and she had simply not been paying attention. She found herself thinking of every time she had reached for his hand in the market place, every time her fingers had brushed against his as they read one another’s cards.

She found herself wondering how exactly it was she was special to him. Did he speak of her in the same terms as a favourite book or blend of tea or did he think of her in the same nonsensical manner she had come to think of him?

“Asra, I,” she began, gathering her nerves to ask, only to be interrupted by the sound of the kettle boiling.

“Ah, just a second,” he said, rushing off to rummage through the cupboards for two clean cups. She watched his retreating back, every shred of confidence she had evaporating as he poured the tea.

“Now then,” he said, setting the cup down in front of her, “what was it you wanted to say?”

Madeline closed her eyes as she peered over the rim of her cup, taking in the fragrant scent. Perhaps this was not the right time, after all. Perhaps he had only meant to speak of her as an apprentice or a friend and demanding further introspection would complicate matters between them. Perhaps there was a reason the kettle had boiled there and then, before she could make such a mistake.

And so she giggled and shook her head as if the matter were inconsequential.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Thank you for the tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, feel free to follow me on tumblr! My url is fromthedeskofelizabeththird


	2. Nadia

“I have a gift for you.”

A simple sentence, though it sent her imagination wandering to far off places. To ruined dresses and gems even bigger than the one at her throat. Nadia had promised her gifts, though Madeline had somewhat optimistically believed she was joking. It seemed insulting to accept such fine things with little more than a ‘thank you’.

Seeming not to notice her conflict, Nadia lifted a box from her dresser and Madeline gulped as she took in the jeweled frame.

“Here,” said Nadia. ”Open it.”

On the front of the box was a clasp in the shape of a flower she didn’t recognise and she ran her fingers over the metal before reaching to unfasten it.

_Oh_

Her gift was a set of silver brushes and combs, oils and talcs and three hairpins with jewels carefully worked into the design. Madeline’s own brush was horsehair and had given her a splinter more than once. Only two days earlier, in fact, Portia had raised an eyebrow at the sight of her sucking her finger.

Had she mentioned it, perchance? Or, worse, had Nadia taken a good long look at her unruly curls and decided enough was enough?

“I,” she said, closing the box. “Thank you.”

‘Thank you’ never seemed to be enough, though, and for the first time Nadia seemed to agree. She gazed from the box to Madeline and back again before chuckling and taking a step towards her dressing table.

“Come,” she said, rearranging a nearby chair. “Sit here.”

The prospect of sitting at Nadia’s dinner table was overwhelming. But her dressing table? Madeline could scarcely breathe. She had never been able to look at it in much detail, but it had always fascinated her, from its brightly coloured vials and sweet scented powders to the unblemished sheen of Nadia’s jewellery. As she sank into the chair Nadia offered, Madeline caught the scent of lavender. More specifically, a lingering scent left behind from each and every time Nadia had positioned herself there, applying lotions or rearranging her dress.

As she took up a brush, Madeline could not help but watch her steady movements in the mirror: the fall of her hair across her shoulders; the half smile as she tugged the ribbon from her braid.

“When I was growing up, I used to hate having my hair brushed,” she chuckled, wrapping one lock around her finger and then another. “My hair would tangle so, so easily and the knots almost never came out.”

Her hands were gentle against Madeline’s temples, though, teasing out every tangle so gently that despite herself, she found her eyelids drooping.

“I used to yell and scream and find places to hide, anything to avoid it,” Nadia laughed, “but they always caught me in the end.”

It was difficult to imagine Nadia yelling and screaming about anything and, even though she presumed the Countess expected her to laugh, she found herself wondering what else about her she had gotten so horribly wrong.

“You… you don’t mind having your hair brushed now?”

It seemed to be the logical thing to ask, even if Nadia’s smile faltered the second she did. Madeline wondered if she had pried too far and deliberated apologising right there and then, though the change lasted only a matter of seconds and Nadia was triumphant as she set down her brush.

“And there we go.”

The finished braid was long and sleek, held in place with a sapphire pin. Madeline had never known her hair so tidy and did not blame Nadia for taking a step back to admire her handiwork.

In the end, she ever got an answer to her question and made no attempts to press the issue. She thought she understood, though, as she got up from the dressing table and took one last look at the room behind her: each one of its glimmering surfaces and decorated vases; the gilded paintings on the wall.

And, more specifically, the woman standing inside of it, as gilded and glimmering as everything around her, abandoned to solitude the moment she closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, feel free to follow me on tumblr! My url is fromthedeskofelizabeththird


	3. Julian

“I was wondering…” **  
**

“About my roguish charms?”

“Not now, unfortunately.”

Julian paused from tying his shirt to clap a hand over his heart in mock offense.

“Your curse,” she said. “How does it work exactly?”

It was a simple enough question, though the moment she said it every ounce of mirth left his features..

“Oh,” he said, continuing to fiddle with the strings. “I thought..I thought we went over this.”

He had, of course. A long time ago while she bled all over the cobblestones. It seemed almost strange to think about it as she nestled in bed, the hazy morning sunlight dappling Julian’s hair in shades of furious red whenever he turned his head in the right direction.

“You did,” she said, blush creeping across her cheeks, “but I was wondering…”

* * *

Julian ran cold and she’d accepted it. The first time he touched her body she had inwardly gasped at how cold his fingers were, only to dismiss it as a consequence of the pair of them wandering Vesuvia by moonlight. She realised otherwise the first time they shared a bed and, despite the warmth of the covers, his feet were like blocks of ice.

Even as he peeled back his shirt sleeve on that particular morning, sunlight shining through the window, his skin remained cool to the touch.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Well…yes…but…”

In that moment, he was a strange mix of concerned and melancholy and Madeline knew why without asking. He looked much the same when she first saw the murderer’s mark on the back of his hand: worried for the outcome and ashamed at it already; facade of smiles and laughter shattered in a matter of seconds.

“You don’t have to, you know,” she said. “I was just curious..it’s not important!”

“Well you’ve got me curious now,” he said. “Go on.”

Slowly, Madeline rolled back her own sleeve, relief washing through her as she took in the soft light of the curse seal at his throat.

“Are you…ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be…”

At a complete contrast to the careful touches to her sleeve, she reached for the inside of her elbow and pinched. Hard. She winced at the sudden twinge of pain and rubbed her fingers over the spot, glancing up at Julian in curiosity at what might happen next. Seconds after, Julian retracted his own arm as if burned and Madeline watched with a morbid sort of curiosity at the red mark appearing on the inside of his elbow, perhaps a matter of millimeters to the left, but otherwise almost in exactly the same location as the one fading from her skin.

“I didn’t think you’d pinch that hard,” he said, rubbing at the skin. “Can’t say it’s an unwelcome surprise, though.”

“I didn’t think it would work,” she breathed, imagination suddenly running wild with a multitude of practical applications, only a few of which were innocent. “Do you suppose Asra meant for it to work like that?”

Julian snorted as he rolled his sleeve back up and got to his feet in search of the rest of his clothes.

“Well I mean…this is Asra we’re talking about.”

“Ah, you’re right,” she said, almost ashamed at how casually she had misjudged her own master. “Of course he did.”


End file.
